Timing is everything, so we are told. And that’s what I told myself as I headed toward the livestock trailer Thursday afternoon. I had been bushhogging our four nearby sheep paddocks while waiting on a friend to show up to help castrate three piglets. Which, when I think on it, is the definition of “friend”: the people who will actually show up to help castrate.

Earlier, as I finished the third pasture and was on my way to the last, Cindy had appeared at the top of the hill. She waved, I waved, I pointed to where I was going next, then we both waved again — a rural semaphore, it’s one of the first helpful skills you learn when you make your move to the country.

This fourth field, on a steep north-facing slope, creates more than its share of, shall we say, clinching moments. So, with eyes and grip fully focused on keeping the tractor from somersaulting down the hill, I let my mind ramble. It was the notion of domestic politics that was much on my mind as I bushhogged. In the effort to bridge the divide and enhance civility, I had suggested that we once again get our good friend Tim to assist with the castration.

Castrating pigs is an unpleasant task that Tim has long helped with without complaint. Because, although Cindy and I get along most amicably overall … well, there are those times. One of those times, when the partisan divide is felt at its most keenly sharpened point, is when a man and a woman are separating young male pigs from that which they most desire to keep. It is during these periodic operations that our dear friend agrees to play the role of agile wrangler, mighty holder, and domestic buffer.

Musing thusly as I finished up the last pasture, I caught sight of Cindy waving again. This time the semaphore said, Get ye hence up the hill. Which I did. Cresting the hill and cruising across the outer corral on the tractor, I spied both Tim and his brother lounging at the gate with a bottle each of my best beer.

In my prolonged absence, the deed had been done. Tim wrangled and confined, his brother and also our good friend Russ held the snout — because anyone who’s ever heard a pig squeal quickly learns the importance of snout holding — while Cindy wielded the scalpel.

Which reminded me, yet again, that timing really is everything. And now, dear reader, you know all that you need to know regarding castrating young pigs.

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Reading this weekend: Last Hope Island (Olson), a narrative history of WW II. 

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